I Spy
by darnedchild
Summary: Sherlock observes a bit more than he expected. Smut, pure plot-less smut. Wank!Lock. Sherlock/Molly.


AN: Thanks to Lilsherlockian1975 for agreeing to beta this for me.

 **I Spy**

He hadn't meant to.

He really, really hadn't. Now that he had, he wished he could forget it ever happened.

But a part of him, a tiny infinitesimal part of his mind, insisted he wanted to remember it forever.

Mycroft's voice echoed in his head. " _Not so tiny. Admit it, Sherlock. You promised never to lie to yourself again."_

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

He'd swept into the lab at Barts and his nose had immediately been assaulted by the smell of chemical cleaners. There was a vaguely (very vaguely) familiar man on his hands and knees, a bucket of water and a bottle of bleach based cleanser at his side. It only took Sherlock a moment to deduce what had happened.

The man looked up from scrubbing the floor and stammered, "Mr Holmes, I wasn't expecting-That is, Doctor Hooper didn't tell me you were going to be coming in this afternoon."

"Why would she? Surely it's none of your concern." Sherlock confidently skirted the shiny tiles that indicated a still wet floor and moved to the cooling unit Molly had set aside space for him to store his current experiment in. Obviously there had been an accident, something fell to the floor and shattered. He'd observed a dust pan and brush near the idiot, no doubt used to sweep up broken glass. It couldn't have been anything too dangerous because while the idiot was wearing gloves, there were no other safety precautions in place. Nothing to indicate a toxic substance or something extremely acidic. Sherlock ignored the idiot, intent on ascertaining that his experiments hadn't been the victim of someone's clumsiness.

Everything he cared about was in place. He briefly considered setting up his favourite scope and working, but the smell was beginning to irritate him.

He left without a word, ignoring the idiot's hesitant, "Should I tell Doctor Hooper you were here?"

Sherlock was most of the way to the end of the hall when something made him pause. His eyes narrowed as he considered the niggling thought at the back of his mind.

 _Where was Molly?_

She should have been in the lab. She wasn't the kind of person who would let just anyone work in her space unsupervised while she was on shift. Obviously she let Sherlock, only bothering to check in from time to time with an offer of help and a quick observation that he hadn't destroyed hospital property. But it had taken nearly a year of good behaviour-or as close to it as possible for him-to be allowed that freedom in Molly's domain.

Yet the idiot was in there, alone. He wasn't a doctor, his age and ID implied medical student or intern at best.

Sherlock spun on one heel and headed toward the observation area above the morgue. The lower room was empty. She wasn't in her office, either.

Unease had him hurrying to the women's locker room. If she wasn't there, he would be forced to use his phone to text her; and then he would need to come up with some excuse, because there was no way he was going to admit he was worried about her out of character disappearance.

He opened the door and silently made his way around the wall that separated the lockers from immediate view; not wanting to startle anyone into screaming the entire hospital down should the room be occupied.

His mouth opened to call her name, and the word died unspoken before it could cross his lips.

There was Molly.

 _"Well done, you found her. Now get out,"_ John urged.

There was Molly, damp hair fastened atop her head in a loose, messy bun. There was Molly, wrapped only in a towel as she stood in front of her locker. There was Molly, fresh from a shower, water droplets sliding down her-impossibly long for her height-legs.

 _"Move, Sherlock. For God's sake, leave!"_ John again. This time the voice was urgent.

He didn't. Couldn't. Couldn't even breathe as she unwound the towel from around her body and began to dry herself.

Her arse was pert and firm. Perfect.

She half-turned to brace her foot on the bench near the lockers and his mouth watered. Like one of Pavlov's fucking dogs hearing a dinner bell.

Molly was exquisite. How he could have ever thought her breasts were too small, he had no idea. Even from his vantage point-tucked away in the shadows, mostly hidden by the wall-he could tell that they were small, yes, but perfectly proportioned for her figure and practically made to fill his large hands.

If he'd thought about her body, he would have assumed she had a boyish figure; no waist or hips to speak of.

But he never thought about her body.

 _"Really, Sherlock? Is that what you're telling yourself?"_ So much amusement in Mycroft's voice. Gloating. Mocking.

He'd been so very wrong. Her waist was tiny, her hips womanly and more than enough to hold onto if someone were to bend her over and take her from behind. So easy to do, really. She'd put her hands on the lockers for support, or possibly the bench in front of the lockers, and he wouldn't even need to take his trousers off. Just push them low enough to free his cock, and then he could slide inside her. He could almost feel those hips under his hands, hear her barely restrained moans as she tried to keep them from being overheard while he pounded into her warm, welcoming, wet heat.

No, that wouldn't do. He would want to hear her, every noise she made. Hear her call his name as she came.

He growled, low and deep in his throat, horrified at his body's immediate reaction to the mental image.

Molly stilled. He took a step back; deeper into the shadows. He couldn't let her see him now. They'd both be embarrassed. Their relationship would be strained for days. Weeks possibly. No, better to slip out of the door undetected and delete the entire incident.

He didn't leave.

She straightened, holding the towel in front of herself, as she peered into the shadows. "Hello?"

Should he say something? Pretend he'd just come through the door and then announce himself on the other side of the wall. Give her a chance to tell him that she wasn't decent.

His throat didn't work. He tried, he honestly did, but nothing came out.

After a long moment, Molly shook her head and laughed at herself. "No more late night slasher movies for you, Molly Hooper."

The towel lowered as she finished drying herself, but she hadn't turned away.

Sherlock had to lean back against the wall behind him, suddenly weak kneed.

His gaze was immediately drawn to the patch of dark curls at the apex of her thighs. The analytical part of his mind registered that she was well groomed, that she obviously took an interest in maintaining the appearance of . . .

That was, of course, when The Woman spoke up, _"Does she do it for herself, do you think? Or for her lover?"_

His hands clenched at his sides. He bit his tongue to keep from telling The Woman to be quiet and go away.

 _"She's lovely, isn't she? Definitely deserves more than a quick fuck in the locker room for her first time with you. I'd wait until at least the fourth or fifth before you suggest it,"_ she teased.

There would be no quick fucks with Molly _._

John laughed. _"I doubt that, mate. By all means, take your time for awhile, but there's nothing like a quick one when you're gagging for it. Really gets the blood flowing. You know Mary and I like to-"_

Sherlock's eyes widened, his gaze never leaving Molly as she pulled a pair of perfectly bland and serviceable knickers from her locker and put them on. _Shut up, shut up, shut up! All of you!_

He held his breath, afraid that he'd said all that aloud. Molly didn't look his way, though. She simply continued to get dressed.

It was now or never. Stay or go. Let her think he was just entering the room, or slink away with his tail between his legs and pretend none of this had ever happened.

The choice was obvious. He slipped through the door and scurried away, pulling his Belstaff tight around his body. God forbid he be seen coming from the direction of the women's locker room sporting an obvious erection.

Sherlock turned the corner and ducked into the closest room. It was a supply closet, barely a cupboard; filled with towels, bottles of soap and hand sanitizer, and cleaning supplies.

He tried to calm his breathing, desperately tried to will his traitorous body to behave. His eyes closed and she was there in his mind palace. Naked and wet.

 _"Is she really wet, Sherlock? Everywhere? You should find out."_ The Woman again.

"Stop it. Not Molly. She's my . . . pathologist," he quietly begged.

 _"You've thought about it, though. Before now. Haven't you?"_ John unhelpfully reminded him.

His erection wasn't going away.

He couldn't stay hidden in a supply closet for the rest of the afternoon, waiting for her shift to be over so he could leave without the risk of running into her. Could he?

"Of course not."

Even before he'd made a conscious decision, his hands were pushing his coat out of the way and reaching for the button and zip of his trousers. He shoved his trousers and boxers down to his thighs. The lining of his coat felt strange against his bare arse. His hand firmly closed around his arousal and he began to stroke himself.

Mind palace Molly started to dry herself with a towel. Not with the scratchy generic ones supplied by the hospital. This one was identical to the soft, luxurious towels in Sherlock's bathroom.

Sherlock bit his lip to stifle a groan as his hand moved faster.

Molly looked up, much as she had in the locker room, but this time she saw him. She coyly held the towel up to her breasts and called out to him. "Naughty boy. Spying on me. What did you want, Sherlock?"

Drops of precum had begun to leak from the head of his cock, and he made good use of them to lubricate each stroke. His free hand cupped and massaged his balls.

"I said, what did you want, Sherlock?" Molly playfully lowered the towel just enough that he could see the pink skin of her areolas.

"You," he gasped, his knees beginning to go weak again. He had to lean back against the closet door as his hand continued to work his cock.

The towel dropped to the floor, already forgotten as his eyes danced across every curve and hollow of Molly Hooper's beautiful body. She beckoned him with one hand. The other slid from her neck down between her breasts and lower still, ending just above the dark curls that made him ache so. "You can have me. All you have to do is ask."

Sherlock could feel his balls tighten, that rare but familiar electric tension at the base of his spine began to grow.

It had been months since he'd indulged, telling himself that masturbation was an unnecessary inconvenience to be ignored as long as possible. Perhaps he'd put it off too long if this was the result? This desperate need for release that found him wanking in a fucking hospital closet to thoughts of Molly Hooper.

Beautiful, sexy, and gloriously naked Molly Hooper.

Would she? Would she welcome him with open arms and open legs if he were to ask? Would she let him drop to his knees before her and worship her like a goddess? Would she suck his cock until he couldn't stand the pleasure a second longer? Would she let him fuck her, let him feel her flutter and clench around his cock as she came? Would she let him come inside her?

"Oh God, fuck," Sherlock gasped, eyes closed as mind palace Molly slipped her hand between her thighs and moaned.

He barely had the presence of mind to cover the head of his penis as he came.

It took several seconds for him to recover. The first order of business was definitely clean up. He grabbed one of the towels off the shelves and wiped his hand and penis clean. Sherlock tucked himself away and fastened his trousers, taking a moment to smooth a few wrinkles from the fabric. Then he grimaced as he carefully folded the towel and tucked it away inside his coat until he could properly dispose of it.

Sherlock felt much calmer now than when he'd hidden in the closet. All he needed to do was exit the hospital without running into Molly, and he'd surely be able to remove all memories of the afternoon once he got home.

John laughed again. _"Yeah, sorry. Don't think so, mate."_

This time Sherlock ignored the voice. He cautiously cracked open the door and checked that the hallway was clear. Once he was sure it was safe, he confidently headed toward the exit, pausing only long enough to toss the evidence of his momentary insanity in a rubbish bin.

His luck ran out before he made it much farther.

"Sherlock! Hello. Franklin said you'd been in for a bit," Molly called from behind him.

He could hear her footsteps approach across the hall tile. She was wearing sensible shoes, there was no telltale click of heels designed to draw a man's gaze. She didn't need them; he was drawn to her just as she was. Sensible. Intelligent. Desirable. Fantasy inspiring.

He swallowed hard, and spun to greet her with a friendly-if strained-smile.

She was wearing the clothes she'd put on after her shower. The knowledge of exactly what she looked like under the button down shirt and trousers made him want to squirm. And her hair was still up in that loose bun, damp tendrils curled around her face and neck just begging to be touched.

Was she trying to kill him?

"Sorry I wasn't there, Franklin tripped and I ended up covered in . . . well, it wasn't pleasant. I had to pop out and clean myself up a bit." She looked up at him expectantly, and he had never been so aware of how petite she was in comparison to his height and weight. He'd be able to lift her easily, press her against the wall and wrap her legs around his waist as she clawed at his naked back.

 _"For God's sake, Sherlock. Snap out of it."_ He never thought he'd be so glad to hear his brother's voice, but it was enough to bring him back to the hallway.

Molly looked concerned and he realized she'd asked him something.

"Sorry, I just thought of something. For a case. You were saying?"

She smiled, comfortable with his idiosyncrasies after all these years. "I said, what did you want, Sherlock?"


End file.
